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"Well," answered Dan, "he's gone and got more of them to take the place of them you shot—old man Warren has—a hundred pair of 'em—six hundred dollars worth, and—"

"Ah! that makes it different," said Silas, rubbing his hands and looking up at his old muzzle-loader, which rested on a couple of wooden hooks over the door. "It's true that six hundred dollars ain't no great shakes of money to a man who—hum! But still I am obliged to old Warren. They won't bring me in no such sum as that, them birds won't, but they'll be worth a dollar a brace this season easy enough, and that'll pay me for the trouble I'll have in shooting them. Ain't I going to make a power of money this winter?"

"No, you ain't," snapped Dan, who had made several ineffectual attempts to induce his father to stop talking and listen to him. "And you ain't by no means as smart as you think you be, neither."

"What for?" demanded his father.

"'Cause you keep jawing all the while and won't let me tell you. He's going to have them birds pertected, the old man is, and you can't shoot them loose and reckless like you did last winter."